


Lestrade and the Inevitable Smoke

by Deleaf



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabble, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Gen, POV Greg Lestrade, Reunions, Season/Series 03, Self-Reflection, Short & Sweet, Smoking, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 11:29:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25470052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deleaf/pseuds/Deleaf
Summary: Lestrade finds himself smoking with strange thoughts and stranger company.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	Lestrade and the Inevitable Smoke

Lestrade had tried to give of smoking many times in his life, but always, inevitably, went back. It happened regardless of how many nicotine patches he used or how many low tar options he tried to lean himself of with. Whatever he did, he always seemed to end up smoking in some dingy back road or illegally on a more main road.

He thought about Sherlock’s death the same way: an inevitable crash by a man who took too many risks in his life _not_ to end up dead somewhere before his face had time to age or his brain to wither. Thinking about it like that helped. Thinking about it like that excused Lestrade from any blame--either as a detective or a friend.

Lestrade never said he was a good man.

He liked to think that he really shouldn’t be responsible for falling for Moriarty’s plot--the man was a bloody genius after all--and he was just doing his _goddamn job_.

Yet, other times, he couldn’t help but blame himself. There were days when all he could think of was John’s anger and the far-away look in Molly’s eye. Days where he had to brace himself before going to Barts or talking to a mutual friend.

Days where a cigarette found itself in Lestrade’s hand so the guilt and grief couldn’t find it’s way into his head.

It was one such day that he found himself lighting a fag in an underground lot on Third Street. The texture of it sitting between his lips already bringing relief as the lighter sputtered in his hand.

Without Lestrade having heard the footsteps approaching, a baritone sounded over his efforts with the cigarette. “Those things will kill you, you know.”


End file.
